Landscape, with Remnants of a Tale

This entry is part 5 of 73 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2011-12

Like them, we were young once at the bend of the road where the trail enters the woods. No one who goes in emerges unchanged. Watch the way the colors shift on the bark of trees, from russet to carbon, to old serpentine. We turned the stones over, lay our bodies across their moss. Who cared what the sunlight touched? The littlest stones looked glazed with sugar. Feathers flashed in our hair— stippled, brilliant with color, purple and green. Egged on by hunger and need, our tongues were quicker than quick. It was always now or never; always fire, fucking, curses. Our hearts never stopped banging at the door. And then, the tollways reached, the fumbling for ivory card stock embossed with names. Under the moon, on the winding trail, our pockets rich with crumbs.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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3 Comments


  1. Such poetic eloquence, Luisa! It’s like Lester Young and Billie Holiday all over again.

    Reply

  2. Evocative, with many lovely bits. I think maybe I want it to be longer and let me in a little more… But maybe that’s greedy!

    Merry 3rd day of Christmas, Luisa!

    Reply

    1. Marly, hmm, maybe I’ll continue it in today’s poem :)

      Reply

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